Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

But I couldn’t move. Nor articulate what came jumbling out. “No one has ever...no one...” I wiped my face with a handkerchief, holding my waist as if my insides could fall out to join my exposed hurts and wants.  I couldn’t speak anymore. He pulled my arm into his and guided me onward.

I glanced at him as we walked. His face turned the other way. Avoiding mine? His hands tremored slightly. He remained silent the rest of the way, his horse clomping behind us.

Wagons and carts pulled along the road now, pedestrians toting market baskets and workmen their tools. There was not much more we could say in the open.

He delivered me to the minister’s home and pardoned himself of the subsequent invitation. “I shall fetch you in an hour.”

.

My time in their home was an oasis. I was offered as many cups of tea as I could wish, calming my rankled nerves. A platter of delicate sandwiches and shortbread disappeared as Reverend Meade and I discussed Dickens further and dipped into Wordsworth. And if Dickens had co-written with a poet, how more lyrical might his novels be? “Almost biblical!”  Rev. Meade satisfied himself with a fifth sandwich. Had not God done the same in His story? Plot above plot, story within story. Hidden treasure, and always the ever-cascading songs in the background. Sometimes in the forefront. “Tragedies, truth, love, healing.”

Mrs. Meade removed my empty cup and placed a novel in my hands.

“Our Mutual Friend, as promised.”

I lifted the leather volume to my nose. “Thank you. I will begin tonight and try to go to sleep at a decent hour.”

Mrs. Meade laughed. “Perhaps Reverend, Dear, you might try to do the same?” Her eyes twinkled with humor.

Mr. Bleu knocked at their door and Mrs. Meade led him in. “You have time for refreshment, I insist.”

He nodded and sat down on the couch next to me. “The General Store will now supply good black tea on a regular basis.”

Mrs. Meade exclaimed. “This is good news! How did you manage it?”

Mr. Bleu shrugged. Had he done this for me?

“After all these years of begging.” Rev. Meade shook his head. “Miraculous.”

Mr. Bleu stood and looked straight at me. “Reverend, might I have a word?”

Mrs. Meade patted my hand, I jerked to attention. “Why don’t I show you the quilt I’m working on.”

I glanced behind as we went upstairs. A rumble of voices carried on. Why did I always want to be privy to these private moments? Did I really think I was the center of everything discussed? Hogwash. And yet, the way he looked at me...

I invested my focus on the quilt and the flying goose design pieced in traditional red, blue, green and white. Perfect triangles pointed in square flocks, sweeping up, another sweeping down. Geese are scarcely ever alone, knowing their place for the benefit of others. Wish I had this wise instinct.

Mrs. Meade spoke her intent to give it away but uncertain of the deserving party. “Or undeserving...” she said. At the time, I scarcely understood what she meant. “Maybe some poor soul’s life would be changed a beautiful gift.” She rubbed her hand across the design. “Assuming they found it pleasing as well.”

“It certainly is! I’m sure anyone would be blessed to have it.” I could think of nothing more lovely than being covered by friendship in this way—every patch declaring this truth: a piece and a place...

She sighed and went back downstairs. Mr. Bleu waited by the door, ready to walk me  home.

A warm wind blew, and I removed my bonnet and shawl. I didn’t care if I freckled or tanned. We walked slowly.

He kept our conversation on an even keel. Asked about my visit...talked of books. His childhood hope to be a sailor, never having seen the ocean in his life. “But I had ridden on a steamship on the Mississippi when I was eight and swallowed the dream hook, line, and sinker.”

We spoke of daily things. Laughed over childhood ideas. His unusual prayer over me hovered.

We came to the crossroads where I had hidden the staff. Mr. Bleu reached over the stone wall and then handed it to me.

“Do you want me to walk you the rest of the way?”

Chapter 18

MAY 13, 1880

A clutch of daisies grew at the corner of the cottage, bending to the light wind, rising toward the hot sun. The red brick rectangle offered little charm except for the wide windows, unnaturally large for its face and dangling shutters grasping to the house in a final plea, as if fighting the vines that pulled them back to the earth.

I wanted to go in. I reached toward the handle, but Mr. Bleu stepped in front of me. “No. Let me go in first. I hear you aren’t too fond of snakes.” Amusement pulled at his lips and eyes.

I winced and nodded all too gladly.

I walked back towards the gate, my dress hems full of sticky seeds and prickles. I looked around at the ten acres—certainly useful for something. A small barn had fallen in on itself. A broken down wagon sat beside it. The well handle had rusted and stuck with misuse.

Ernest had accompanied us and sprinted around the fallen structure looking for discarded iron or forgotten tools that might come into full use again.

Mr. Bleu shouted. “Floors’ rotten, but you can at get a glimpse through the doorway safely enough.”

He held the door open and I peered in. An earthy stench seeped from its forgotten corners and decomposing plaster. I covered my nose with my handkerchief.

One large room with a smaller room walled off to the side. A few animal skeletons littered the place. A forgotten tin cup in the window sill...a bottle on the mantle. Altogether lifeless. Such are my riches.

“I suppose it needs to be torn down.”

He shrugged. “Or restored and used. I hate to see the original house destroyed.”

The place had been a wedding gift to my mother and